Go In and Sink! (41 page)

As Gerrard walked away, Frenzel said quietly, ‘This is going to be
big
all right.’

‘I think we have a good chance, Chief.’

‘Yes.’ He chuckled. ‘Only an idiot would expect us to try and bluff this one out!’

The marine captain came over and saluted. ‘Ready to embark, sir.’

He was tall and thin and had a bushy ginger moustache, probably to give age to his rank. In fact it made him look like a boy in a school play.

‘Nice to have you aboard.’ Marshall watched the first of the little canoes being lowered down the depot ship’s side.

The marine remarked, ‘I’ve done two raids in those things. Piece of cake.’ He marched away, barking orders to his two lieutenants.

Frenzel grinned. ‘Christ, it’s going to be crowded on board!’

Marshall looked at his watch. Soon he would be too involved to blink. He had to find a moment to write her a letter. To leave behind. Just in case.

Frenzel said abruptly, ‘Congratulations, by the way. I’m very glad for you, sir.’ He looked away. ‘And I don’t mean about your promotion either. That should be yours anyway.’

Marshall watched his fingers locking and unlocking around the guardrail. Thinking of his wife. Remembering. How it could have been.

‘Thanks, Chief. I didn’t know it was general knowledge.’

Frenzel faced him again. ‘It isn’t. But I saw you when you came off shore. It was enough. You’ll be good for each other. Bloody fine girl. Brave too.’

‘Yes. I’ve been lucky.’

He made to go, but Frenzel called after him, ‘Stay that way, sir. I have a feeling we’re going to need everything we can get!’

Marshall walked slowly along the boat deck, nodding occasionally to his men as they made their way to the catwalk alongside. He saw Starkie and Blythe, each carrying a steaming bag and smoking his pipe, chatting calmly like old salts off on some routine voyage.

The coxswain said, ‘See you aboard, sir.’

The yeoman added, ‘What’s German for
get knotted
, sir? I want to make a private signal to ’em as we sail out!’

Marshall smiled, ‘Ask the sub.’

He stepped through a screen door and walked to his cabin. The writing pad lay open and ready on his table. It was then he felt his skin chilling all over like ice. It got worse, and worse and when he tried to write the date on the letter he could barely hold the pen. He stared at the bulkhead, the despair returning like fever.

Not now. Not now, of all times
.

He closed his eyes tightly. Holding on to her face. Her touch. Her warmth. Until eventually he was calm again.

Then, and only then did, he begin to write.

Marshall stepped over a sleeping marine and walked into the control room. Above the gentle hum of motors he heard the regular comings and goings of crew and passengers. The boat was crammed beyond capacity. Everywhere you looked were marines and seamen struggling to sleep, eat and work in some semblance of order.

And they had had a full week of it. Creeping along at a reduced speed, avoiding patrol areas and anything which looked or sounded like a threat to their isolation.

He bent over the chart table and compared Devereaux’s calculations with his own. The boat was still steering due west, with Malta’s nearest minefield twenty miles off the starboard beam.

He saw Frenzel by his control panel. He was not required for anything but he stayed there just the same. Perhaps he needed to be there. With something he understood. Or maybe he saw in the familiar gauges some kind of privacy. And that was precious indeed.

Marshall had given his own cabin to Simeon and the marine officers. Even with the spare pipe-cot there was barely enough space for the two marine lieutenants to stretch out on the deck underneath. The wardroom always seemed to be crowded, with Churchill coming and going with coffee, cocoa, tea and food to meet the demands.

He heard a man chuckle and turned to see a German sergeant standing in the bulkhead doorway. He was carrying his helmet and a deadly-looking Schmeisser, and Marshall recognised him as Captain Lambert’s senior N.C.O.

A stoker called, ‘’Ands up! We’ve got our first Jerry prisoner!’

The marine explained to Marshall, ‘Just trying it out,
sir
.’ He glared at the sailor. ‘Be a bugger if the bloody outfit didn’t fit just as we was goin’ ashore!’ He strode away in dignified silence.

Marshall smiled. Browning would have loved it. The cloak-and-dagger atmosphere. The embarrassed anger of the marine sergeant who was more concerned with his appearance than the risk of dying.

He walked over to Frenzel. ‘Still bothered, Chief?’

‘A bit.’ He cocked his head. ‘That flaw in the screw. We can’t do more than six knots submerged without making a bad vibration. Any good Asdic would pick us up in no time.’

‘Then six knots it must be, Chief. If there’s a real emergency we’ll have to think again.’ He smiled. ‘Or take to the cockles!’

Buck, who was O.O.W. called, ‘We will be going through the main Sicilian minefield tonight, sir. Is that right?’

‘Correct.’ He clenched his fists in his pockets. ‘After that we’ll head up and around towards the mainland. Should be in position for the raid in four days, Sunday.’

Buck grinned. ‘Oh bother. I’ll miss church!’

Marshall looked at Frenzel. Were they really so confident, or was it all just for him? To give him the strength he would need to get them in. And out again.

He said, ‘Once clear of the coast we’ll have a general run through the plan. Time each part of the operation. See if we can cut corners.’

He forced himself to think forward again. Visualize the port as it really was instead of lines and sketches on a chart. If the wind got up, or the weather worsened, it would be impossible to drop the cockles too far offshore. That would mean losing time while the submarine manoeuvred
back
to her own attack sector. It might cause a delay to … he shook himself angrily. If, if, if. He would have to see for himself. Then decide.

Frenzel said, ‘I hope everyone appreciates what we’re doing, that’s all.’

Buck grinned, showing his sharp teeth. ‘Knighthoods all round, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Marshall returned to the chart. Listening to their efforts on his behalf was unbearable. It also told him just how much there was at stake. What he had got them into.

A stoker said, ‘Time to call the watch, sir.’

‘Very well. Carry on.’

Gerrard appeared in the control room and listened intently to Buck’s report as he handed over to him. Then he crossed to the table and said, ‘Through the mines again, eh?’

‘Tonight.’ He waited, seeing the nervous tightening around Gerrard’s mouth. ‘We’ll be all right.’

‘Yes.’ Gerrard’s eyes rested momentarily on his shoulder straps. ‘So it seems, sir.’

Marshall stared at him. Surprised. Hurt. ‘Is that what you think? That I’m one of the glory boys? I thought we knew each other better than that!’

Gerrard turned away. ‘Sorry. Spoke out of turn.’ He moved to the gyro and said no more.

Marshall said curtly, ‘I’m going to get some food.’

As he left the brightly lit control room he heard Frenzel murmur fiercely, ‘That was a bloody stupid thing to say!’

He did not hear Gerrard’s answer, nor did he want to. He might have expected a remark like that under such tense circumstances. From Simeon or Devereaux. Almost anybody. But not Gerrard. He was a friend.

He saw Warwick playing chess with the S.A.S. lieutenant,
while
Buck sat at the far end of the table wolfing down tinned sausages as if they were the last available in the world. He wanted to turn and leave. Hide. But there was nowhere to go. He said, ‘Move up for one more.’

Smith studied him impassively and then winked. ‘The sub here may be fine at gunnery. At chess, he ain’t!’

Marshall leaned back and watched Churchill pouring his coffee. It was probably just as well Simeon had his cabin. He might have been tempted to take a drink. Not just coffee.

Churchill asked, ‘Would you like the first lieutenant’s bunk, sir? ’E’s on watch. A bit of shut-eye does a power of good.’

‘No.’ Perhaps he had answered too sharply, for he saw Warwick and Buck glancing at each other. ‘Not just yet.’

Smith smiled gently. ‘Once, when I did a little job in Southern France, I did not sleep for three days. I fed myself with method and tactics until I nearly burst. Afterwards I slept for a week. It is better that way.’

Marshall nodded. ‘I expect you’re right.’

‘It is why I am still alive.’ He pushed the chessboard aside. ‘And why I am plagued with amateurs!’

Marshall smiled. ‘Thanks.’

‘For what?’ His eyes were mildly questioning.

‘I think you know.’

‘Any coffee available?’ Simeon was in the doorway, his face puffy from sleep. He added, ‘Are you discussing the raid?’

Smith looked at him calmly. ‘Piece of cake, sir.’

Simeon sat down and glanced at Marshall. The bruise was still visible on his chin.

He said, ‘And what do
you
think?’

Marshall stood up and walked to the door. ‘You know what
I
think.’

Gerrard was waiting for him, his features working in the harsh lights. ‘I want to apologise, sir.’

He looked at him. ‘Forget it was said.’ He made to walk past, but when Gerrard persisted he added, ‘I said forget it. You’re not the only one with problems. After this lot’s over tell me again. Then I’ll listen. But right now I’ve got some thinking to do, so leave it, will you?’

‘I wanted you to
understand
.’ Gerrard looked desperate. ‘Maybe I’ve been at it too long, I don’t know.’

Marshall took his arm and pulled him into the chart space, dropping his voice as he replied, ‘We’ve all been that, Bob, Even one day is too bloody long! I know you’re worried because of Valerie and the child, but remember all the others who will be hitting the beaches of Sicily in a few weeks time. Don’t you think they’ve got wives, too?’ He saw Gerrard’s mouth tightening and added brutally, ‘If that’s not enough for you then think about Browning. He lost his son, and got killed trying to save others. Or ask the Chief about
his
family and find out why he doesn’t crack up!’ He saw him recoil as if he had struck him, as he had Simeon. He added wearily, ‘I know we didn’t plan for this one. I also know it’s not going to be a
piece of cake
, any more than the marine captain believes it. But don’t tell me, and don’t say it in front of the others. If you value anything between us, then do me that one favour!’

As he stepped through the main bulkhead he knew Gerrard was still staring after him.

Marshall glanced around the packed wardroom and waited while the others eased into position where they could see his large-scale plan.

With all but essential fans and machinery shut down, the air was greasy and humid, and clung to his face like another skin. After a slow crawl through the last minefield, across open water to the north of Sicily and towards the mainland, nearly everyone was showing signs of wear. But the eyes were bright enough, lit by that same old excitement he knew so well. Anxiety, tension, fear, the need to get on with it. Over and done with.

He said, ‘Most of you know by now that the weather has decided not to be on our side.’

Marshall remembered his disappointment when they had gone to periscope depth the previous night to raise the antennae for a last radio contact. Randall, the petty officer telegraphist, had reported glumly that the Met. report was bad. Strong winds closing from the south-west. All the ingredients for a rough sea. He could still feel the disappointment, but knew he must hold it from the others.

He said, ‘But if it’s bad for us, it’ll be good news for the invasion arrangements. Enemy reconnaissance will be too hampered to see much of the real build-up.’

He looked at them slowly. The marine officers and Smith, his own small team, except for Gerrard who was on watch, the N.C.O.s and chief petty officers standing on the seats and clinging to overhead pipes to get a better view. And Simeon. He sat at the opposite end of the table arms folded, his face devoid of expression.

Marshall continued, ‘So this is how we’ll handle it.’